


Creatures of Quirks

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M, Humour, Kissing, Marriage, Quirks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Christine and Erik have not been married long when they start to notice each other's irritating habits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous Tumblr user who requested something on the little irritating habits Christine and Erik start noticing in each other after their marriage.

It is the little things that trouble her, truly. In the grand scale of things they are nothing compared to what they _could_ be with a man such as him. But how they niggle her, grate on her nerves. It’s not that if she had noticed them _before_ they would have impacted on her decision to marry him in any way, rather it is that she wishes she had never noticed them _at all_ , because now she cannot help _but_ notice them.

For example, he has a thing about tapping his fingers. She quite likes his fingers, they are very long and very delicate and powerful in spite of that. It is very endearing, in fact, when he is lost in thought and begins playing organ keys in the air without ever realising it. It is somewhat less endearing, however, when those same long fingers are drumming upon her thigh, playing notes that she can only barely follow, and their owner is engrossed in a book written in some language that she cannot understand, unaware that he is frustrating his dear wife and distracting her from her knitting.

(She has lifted his hand off her thigh on a number of occasions, and still it finds its way back, keying out a new harmony that he’ll play for her later, but only _after_ he’s driven her into a sweat and made her seriously consider taking a cold bath.)

She can overlook the strange way that he tends to carry his fingers, the way they look as if at any moment he will commence to play something. And that is exactly what she does, _overlook_ them and pretend that she does not see them, and the way that at any given moment three fingers of either hand are liable to be curled even while the others are fully extended.

Every single thing he does is dramatic, from the way he walks to the way he speaks. And she understands that it is armour of a sort, a shield that protects him from what other people think, but is it truly necessary for a man to have seventy-five layers of drama just in how he clips on his pocket watch in the morning?

And don’t get her _started_ on the pocket watch. He fiddles with the thing constantly, which is not so great a sin, but when she is studying the libretto to _Faust_ she really _does not need_ to hear the watch clicking open, and closed, and open, and closed, and open, and closed, and open, and closed, and the rattle of the chain before it clicks open _again_ and drives her to retreat to their room to study in peace. He does not even realise that he does this, she knows that. He just _seems_ to do it, sitting at his organ, or hunched over architectural plans or inventions or God knows what, one hand sketching or taking notes and the other at his watch. He’ll worry his watch so much the case will just fall apart someday, and where will that leave him? Watch-less, and then he’ll probably play with the chain.

(He has played the organ with the chain twined between his fingers.  She has watched him do it. And while the golden chain glowing against his pale fingers has a certain aesthetic appeal to it, the very act is troubling to observe, and she cannot explain why, just that it is.)

Oh, there are some habits of his that she enjoys, that only make her love him more. For example, he has a very particular way of rolling his words when he sings, and she has never heard anyone else do it. It adds an extra lyrical quality that stirs her heart and makes her only want to kiss him, to feel those rolling words with her own tongue. She is not certain he even knows he does it. Perhaps he does, perhaps it is wholly intentional, and if that is the case she must get him to teach it to her, because surely if he does it he would enjoy hearing somebody else do it.

But it is not just that he rolls his words, no. He quite often breaks them up, cracks the syllables apart. And that is something that she has never heard anybody else do either, but it is lovely, even in its selectiveness. Not every word falls prey to the cutting edge of his tongue, but the ones that do, oh the ones that do are transformed by it, and she is very nearly certain that _that_ is intentional. Else, it is a relic of having lived alone so long, like his muttering to himself as he putters about.  The muttering really is not the worst – she rather enjoys that, sometimes. Any excuse to hear the natural softness of his speaking voice, even when her own name is falling victim and getting broken apart. Most people run the two syllables together, so the ‘s’ leads into the ‘t’. Even Raoul did that. But Erik, Erik is different. He breaks it in the middle, and that break sends a warm shiver down her spine.

* * *

 

She snores. He confesses this he did not anticipate, but she _snores_. His angel, his _wife_ , is a snorer. It is somewhat troubling, though truly if he were a man who slept more often it might be _more_ troubling. At least when he chooses to sleep he is suitably exhausted that he drops off right away and is not long listening to her.

The first time he heard her snore, he’ll admit he stared at her for quite some time, so horrified was he at the noise that his dear Christine is capable of making. For a brief time, in fact, he thought he was suffering a terrible auditory hallucination. It took a while before he was able to settle again, and even then his dreams were punctuated by her snores.

Yes, the snoring is definitely her biggest sin on his list of her crimes.

(He calls them crimes, because it amuses him. None of them, of course, are _truly_ crimes, at least not compared to what he has done.)

The snoring set aside, there is the fact that wherever he goes now in their little house he finds long, golden hairs strewn. It seems to just happen – wherever she may brush her hair she will inevitably lose some of it. He has invested in a clothes brush, for to dust off the shoulders of her dresses and try to contain the damage in her wardrobe.

She puts jam in her porridge, seemingly oblivious to the detriment its sweetness could wreak on her vocal chords. He has tried to persuade her over to honey, but she refuses and smiles that innocent smile at him as if she thinks it will distract him enough to make him forget about the jam.

(It does. Inevitably every time he ends up smiling back at her, his heart fluttering, and the jam issue falls by the wayside once more.)

She shreds flower petals, seemingly without even considering the matter. She’ll be there, reading quietly and toying with a rose or a lily or a tulip and one by one the delicate petals will be shredded between her fingers. Such a waste! Such beautiful flowers rendered into little scraps! He has taken to always keeping a sweeping brush nearby, ready to clean them up.

(The obvious thing to do would be to stop buying flowers, but how could he ever do that? She enjoys them so much, always smiles and kisses him when he presents her with a bouquet. What sort of a-a monster would he be to deprive her (to deprive himself!) of such happiness? No. The flowers cannot go.)

He might actually crack though if he finds her knitting needles left in his armchair one. more. time.

(Once was, fair enough, his own fault for sweeping her into his arms the way he did. But the other _six_ times? Needless!)

There are, of course, the little habits of hers that he enjoys. Small things, like the way her fingers brush his hand so lightly passing him plates and books and librettos and things. The way she leans into him, curls her fingers tight around his as they walk together. The little kisses she presses to his forehead. Her tendency to sit in his lap when he’s reading and rest her head against his shoulder. The way she sings softly to herself going about the house. So many little things, small moments truly, and he loves them all dearly.

And those precious little moments make up for the rest, and then some. And he would never trade her for anything.

 


End file.
